Transitions
by moonlighten
Summary: April, 2009: Scotland is close to forcing France to make a decision he doesn't think he'll ever be ready for. (Scotland/France.) One-shot, complete. Part 33 of the Feel the Fear series.


**3rd April, 2009; London**

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It started to rain as soon as the taxi pulled away from the kerb. Just a light drizzle of the sort London excelled at, barely even noticeable, but it still made France shiver, and he crossed his arms over his chest, pulling his light jacket closer around his body.

"What was that bastard's problem?" Alcohol had thickened Scotland's burr to the point of near incomprehensibility, swallowing up his consonants and blurring each word into the next.

"Apparently, he can't take more than four passengers," France said, turning to face the other nation. Scotland was leaning against the side of the building behind him, and although his posture was clearly meant to look casual – arms hanging loose at his side, head tipped back slightly to rest against the stone – France deduced from the wide stance of his feet that he needed the support it offered rather more than he would ever admit. "He did apologise."

"One of the weans should have let you have their seat," Scotland said.

France rolled his eyes. "I'm hardly an invalid, Scotland, despite my _advanced years_. I'm sure I can survive the hardship of perhaps waiting _another_ twenty minutes for a cab."

Canada had in fact suggested France take his place, but although his smile had been encouraging and the offer seemed genuine enough, the way his eyes kept darting towards Prussia on the other side of the cab bespoke a certain reluctance that he would doubtless never voice. If the boy needed a little more time to pluck up enough courage to make his move – finally, after all these years! – France would certainly not be the one to stand in his way.

Scotland started to shrug, but the movement made him sway and stagger a step. He made a clumsy attempt to disguise his stumble as deliberate by continuing his forward momentum and walking, albeit unsteadily, to France's side.

"You want to walk with us?" he asked, nodding towards England and Wales, who had already moved some way up the street whilst France and Scotland were talking. "No point hanging around here and it'll help keep you warm."

"I'm fine," France said, hurriedly uncrossing his arms and letting his jacket fall open once more.

"Sure you are." Scotland let out a sharp snort of laughter, and caught hold of France's sleeve, pulling him onward without waiting to hear whether France actually did want to accompany him or not; a presumption that made France's jaw clench involuntarily. "Come on, get moving."

Close to, Scotland stank of the beer that England had poured on him earlier, which had curled the ends of his hair as it dried and already started to smell stale. France wrinkled his nose, and tried to tug his arm free.

"I'll come with you," he said irritably, "but only if you don't drag me."

Surprisingly, Scotland's grip did loosen, but instead of pulling away, he slipped his hand down the inside of France's arm until their palms met, and then interlaced their fingers together. "That better?" he asked.

Scotland had been acting strangely possessive all night: resting his hand on the small of France's back as they stood together at the bar, inclining his head so close whenever they talked that his lips brushed France's ear, and finally – in a move that had caused England to upend his pint over his brother's head – bending him over their table and kissing him in front of everyone seated there. Although they had never kept their relationship an entirely private affair, France had always thought that there was an unspoken agreement between them that such proprietary behaviour was something best kept to the bedroom lest it give any other potential partners – of either of them – any false ideas about _exclusivity_. He would have blamed it on Scotland being drunk, if it hadn't already started so early on in the evening, back before they'd even started drinking in earnest.

"Scotland," he began, but Scotland had yanked his hand free and shoved into the pocket of his jeans before France had even finished saying his name.

Scotland bowed his head slightly, and addressed his next question to the pavement. "You want to stay at England's with me tonight?" His tone was blandly inquiring. "It'd probably be easier to get one taxi instead of two, state of them right now."

Although the suggestion was a tempting one – France had always delighted in the way his presence in England's house, and especially his brother's bed, seemed to upset England's equilibrium so much as he desperately tried to balance his antipathy towards his guest with his need to be seen as a good host, regardless – he had made arrangements that necessitated his return to the hotel.

He shook his head. "I already have plans."

"Who with?" Scotland asked.

France _knew_ they'd agreed not to talk about this. "Does it matter?"

"No," Scotland said, his shoulders hunching up around his ears as his back stiffened. "I guess it doesn't."

Most of Scotland's face was wreathed in shadows, but jaundiced light from a street light splashed across his chin as they passed beneath it, revealing that his mouth was twisted into a frown. He kicked out at a discarded Coke can, and France watched it bounce across the pavement and clatter into the gutter at the side of the road. A taxi sped by, wheels sending up a fine mist of spray from the damp tarmac, but the sign on its roof was dark.

"So, was there any particular reason you didn't tell me you were going to be in the country this week." Scotland's voice had become clearer, his words distinct and hard-edged, as though he was maybe sobering up a little.

France looked across at him sharply, but Scotland did not look back. "I didn't think I needed to. I presumed you would know about the G-20 summit, after all."

"Of course I did. I hoped you might still get in touch, though. Would've been nice to not have to be invited by _England_, instead."

"You needed an invitation?"

"Damn it, France, that's not the point." Scotland's right hand clenched into a fist, the skin across his knuckles blanching as it drew tight, and then he slowly shook it open again. "I mean, you cancelled your last visit, I haven't seen you in months, and you don't even call? I've…" His words were cut short, trapped behind his lips as he bit down on the bottom one.

"You've what?" France asked, not bothering to try and stop his rising exasperation from creeping into his voice.

Scotland's mouth thinned into a bloodless line, pulled taut across his teeth, and he did not reply.

Although it was obvious that Scotland was angry, it was unclear whether he was more upset about what he clearly believed was some sort of neglect on France's part, or the fact that France was planning to spend the night with someone else. Maybe it was both. The thought made France's stomach lurch. This was supposed to be _comfortable_, it was meant to be _easy_ – or as easy as dealing with Scotland could ever hope to be, anyway – with no expectations of fidelity, of constancy, on either side. Scotland had been exhibiting this sort of behaviour for some time now, however – the occasional hot flashes of jealousy, the possessiveness – but France had overlooked it, unwilling to force a confrontation that he knew would result in him having to make the decision he wasn't sure he would ever be ready for.

Thankfully, at that moment, England called out to them down the length of the street where he was standing next to a taxi he'd managed to flag down – "Get a move on; meter's already running." – which seemed to lift Scotland's mood instantly. He grinned, and his stride lengthened, causing France to have to break into an undignified trot to keep up with him.

England glared at Scotland as he reached the car. "What were you two doing, dawdling around back there?"

"We just nipped down an alleyway, had a quick shag." Scotland laughed when England started spluttering, and slapped his brother on the back. "I'm pissed, why do you think we were fucking 'dawdling'? Bit surprised I'm still upright, to be honest."

"Just get in the sodding taxi," England snarled, flicking a hand imperiously towards the open door.

For once, Scotland obeyed his brother without a fight, and then slid across the back seat until he bumped into Wales. Wales groaned and shifted groggily before slumping against Scotland, his head thumping down heavily on his shoulder.

"I'm not a bloody pillow, Wa–" Scotland's eyes slanted towards the taxi driver, who was watching them in the rear view mirror with apparent interest. "Dylan," he finished, hitching his shoulder upwards violently in an attempt to dislodge his brother.

Wales simply snuggled closer, however, curling an arm around Scotland's stomach and mumbling something unintelligible under his breath.

"Jesus Christ, he's a sad case, isn't he," Scotland said, but he made no further move to push Wales away.

"The saddest," England agreed as he clambered into the cab. Once he'd settled himself on one of the flip-down seats opposite his brothers, and conscientiously buckled his seatbelt, he turned his head towards France and asked, "So, are you coming with us or not, Francis? Might be in for a long wait, otherwise."

France smirked. "How very kind of you to offer, Arthur. I didn't know you cared."

"I don't, as you well know," England said, his eyes narrowing. "I just presumed that…" He frowned, obviously trying to dredge up the no doubt ridiculous human name Scotland had decided upon most recently. His memory clearly failed him, as he continued with: "That my brother had already invited you."

"He needs to get back to the hotel," Scotland said before France had chance to answer. "He has plans."

"Well, isn't that a shame," England said, cheerfully. "Now, we'd best–"

France caught hold of the taxi's door as England started to close it without being consciously aware of ever having decided to do so. Logically, it was the wrong choice between the two on before him: on the one hand, there was Netherlands, with whom he had spent a delightfully illuminating few hours the previous night, the repeat performance of which he had been eagerly awaiting all day, and on the other there was Scotland…

Scotland, who would doubtless pass out the second he fell into bed, and then proceed to kick France in his sleep all night as he usually did, perhaps interspersing it with a few elbows to the face for good measure.

There should have been no contest, and yet France still found himself settling down next to Scotland whilst England leant forward and barked out directions to the driver. Despite the fact that Scotland might well have forgotten everything they'd said come morning, there still remained the very real possibility that, given Scotland's current mood, returning to the hotel might perhaps turn out to be the very decision that France could not bring himself to make.

Perhaps, at some point in the future, he might be equal to it, but today, it seemed, was definitely not that day.


End file.
